Wholly Trinity (Les's Bar 3) 1st Edition

Jodi Payne
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/wholly-trinity-less-bar-3-1st-edition-jodi-payne/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

The Trouble With Cowboys Jodi Payne & Ba Tortuga

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-trouble-with-cowboys-jodi-
payne-ba-tortuga/

Pick Up Man (Wrecked Universe Book 4) Jodi Payne & Ba

Tortuga

https://ebookmass.com/product/pick-up-man-wrecked-universe-
book-4-jodi-payne-ba-tortuga/

Trinity D.J. Machale

https://ebookmass.com/product/trinity-d-j-machale/

(Ebook PDF) California Performance Test Workbook:

Preparation for the Bar Exam (Bar Review)

https://ebookmass.com/product/ebook-pdf-california-performance-
test-workbook-preparation-for-the-bar-exam-bar-review/
Dragon Rogue: A Dragon Island story Jodi Kendrick

https://ebookmass.com/product/dragon-rogue-a-dragon-island-story-
jodi-kendrick/

Neuroscience for Neurosurgeons (Feb 29,

2024)_(110883146X)_(Cambridge University Press) 1st
Edition Farhana Akter

https://ebookmass.com/product/neuroscience-for-neurosurgeons-
feb-29-2024_110883146x_cambridge-university-press-1st-edition-
farhana-akter/

Strategies & Tactics for the MBE (Bar Review)

https://ebookmass.com/product/strategies-tactics-for-the-mbe-bar-
review/

The Fall of Boris Johnson Sebastian Payne

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-fall-of-boris-johnson-
sebastian-payne/

Yoga auf dem Stuhl für Dummies Larry Payne

https://ebookmass.com/product/yoga-auf-dem-stuhl-fur-dummies-
larry-payne/
WHOLLY TRINITY
LES’S BAR SERIES
BOOK 3
JODI PAYNE
BA TORTUGA
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Les’s Bar Series
Want More?

Afterword
About Jodi
About BA
Available from Jodi & BA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the
intent of either the author or the publisher.

Wholly Trinity
Copyright © 2023 by Jodi Payne & BA Tortuga

Cover illustration by AJ Corza

http://www.seeingstatic.com/
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

ISBN: 978-1-951011-71-0

All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation
of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. No eBook format cannot
be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the
Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Tygerseye Publishing, LLC, www.
tygerseyepublishing.com

Electronic edition published by Tygerseye Publishing, LLC, January 2023

Printed in the USA
To our wives
 1

“I appreciate this, Isaac. I apologize for the lack of notice.”

Lack of notice? It wasn’t like Cyrus could possibly have known that his client was going to
die, let alone when. Tragedy wasn’t something to be scheduled, though it was just like Cyrus to wish
he could. Isaac put his cell phone on speaker and set it on the desk, then opened his briefcase beside
it.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Cyrus. Alain can stay with me while you’re in Texas, and until you’ve
got your balance back. It’ll be fine.”
He started stuffing files into his briefcase. He was going to have to get some work done at home
tonight, and possibly reschedule some of his patients tomorrow, but Cyrus Hughes was the sort of man
who helped everyone else; it was a rare thing that he asked for help himself and there was nothing
Isaac wouldn’t do for him.
“Thank you. I can’t predict how the next few days will go, but—”
“Cy. Alain will be just fine with me. I understand his needs, and I’m happy to do this. Just focus
on yourself for a few days, for god’s sake.” He knew what Cyrus was going through losing a client;
he’d lost a few patients over the years himself. Those feelings could be incredibly difficult.
Cyrus sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “Yes. I’ve got some…things to work through.”
He snorted. “Feelings, Cyrus. They’re called feelings. Give it time. Go get your closure.”
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Thank you, Isaac. I’ll be in touch.”
“Take care. Safe travels.” Isaac hung up the phone, closed his briefcase and headed out. Once
settled in his cab he called Neil to see if he was available. This would be easier as a two-man job.
“Hola, Guapo.”
Isaac rolled his eyes at the nickname. Neil Morrow had latched onto the compliment upon their
first meeting, and he absolutely refused to give up on it.
“Hey, there. What’s your schedule tonight? Are you free? I need you to help me with something…
or, well, someone.”
Neil chuckled softly, but there was something raw about the sound. “I’m on a week’s leave
without pay, thanks, so I’m in. I just got to my apartment.”
A week would work, but…what? He was going to have to unpack this with Neil more formally
later. “Without pay? Sounds like we have something to talk about. But I have to be honest, it’ll have to
wait, because this is a bit of an emergency. Can you meet me at Cy’s place? Alain’s going to stay with
me for a bit.”
“Sure, man. No worries. You want me to drive over or not?”
 “Yes, please. We’ll have to pack a suitcase for him. Cy will be gone when we get there, because
he had to fly to Texas for a funeral.” Cy said the doorman was expecting them and would let them in.
“Texas? Like my Texas? Who died?”
Neil’s Texas. Seriously?
He could hear the door close, and Neil started heading down the stairs toward the garage.
“No, Texas, New Jersey. Yes, idiot. Your Texas. One of his clients hung himself. A sub.” Most of
Cyrus’s clients were subs. Maybe all of them.
“Oh fuck. That sucks hard, man. I’m sorry. Seriously. Did the little bit know the guy?”
It did suck. “I didn’t get that impression. Cyrus had no intention of taking him along. He just
doesn’t want Alain to be alone overnight.” He didn’t even know what Alain knew, or how the boy
was going to feel about being dragged out of Cyrus’s place. “I hope he’s cool with this. I have no
idea.”
“If he freaks, I’ll call Peter. We hang out quite a bit.”
“I love that your subby half has little friends,” he teased. He couldn’t help it. Peter was a good
boy, and very, very taken.
“Fuck off, Guapo. You don’t know what to do with me.” Neil’s laughter was warm, and Isaac
could see Neil’s expression in his mind’s eye.
If he was being honest, Neil was the handsome one. But he wasn’t planning on being that kind of
honest today. “Oh yes I do. And I’m looking forward to what I get to do with you once we discuss
why you’re on leave without pay.”
His cab stopped at the curb, and he punched the button for a receipt out of habit. He didn’t need it;
he wasn’t getting reimbursed for this house call. “I’m here.”
“I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t scare the kid. He’s just a baby.”
He rolled his eyes again. “Seriously, Neil? I’m not scary,” he replied, knowing damn well he
could be a scary Dom if he wanted to be. Right now though he was just a friend. Maybe a doctor if
need be, but mostly a friend.
“Yeah, right. Terrifying. I’m the good cop. Mostly. See you in a bit.” The phone went dead.
“Butthead.” He climbed out of his cab and went inside, where the doorman practically fell over
himself to make sure he got into the apartment right away. Cyrus must have given him the fear of god
or a big tip. Or both.
Isaac hung his coat up and set his briefcase down in the foyer. Cyrus had a nice place, and this
front area was where he greeted his clients so it was formal and tidy. “Alain?” He called out as he
made his way down the hall. “It’s Isaac. Master Cyrus said you’d be expecting me.”
The young man came out, expression more than a bit worried. “Dr. Isaac! La, did you hear? Poor
Master Cyrus, losing that poor man.”
“I know. He’ll be okay though; he’s going where he needs to be. You look good, Alain.” Worried,
sure, but stronger.
“Thank you, Sir. Master Cyrus has been a dear man. He’s taught me a lot, yessir. I’ve been
working on finding a job, something good so I ain’t leaning all the time on the good men in my life.”
“That’s admirable. Do you think you want to wait tables again?” New York restaurants were loud
and full of people, and he wondered if Alain was ready for that after everything he’d been through.
“No, Sir. I was thinking about cooking. I make some good southern food, me. Gumbo, jambalaya,
shrimps, muffuletta—I know it all.” There was a confidence in the boy now, a tentative happiness that
was new and appealing.
“That sounds great. I remember Peter told me you liked to cook. You should cook for me
sometime, I’d love that.” Okay, now for the hard part. “Did Master Cyrus explain what was going on?
I need you to pack a bag so you can stay with me for a little while.”
“He did, yeah. He said he didn’t think I was ready for a weekend all alone.”
Poor kid. “He cares about you. He just wants to make sure you’re looked after, because that’s
what a Dom does, right?” He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to a little full-time Dom
life for a few days.
“Yes, Sir, and I’m grateful that you both care about me. Thank you ever so.” So polite.
And pretty too, with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. “It’s my pleasure. Let’s get you packed
up.” He put a hand on Alain’s shoulder and steered him toward the guest room Alain had been using.
The room was simple, but comfortable, with a bed and dresser, a green quilt over a rack. Alain
seemed to be living out of a duffel instead of the drawers that Cyrus had provided, and it only took
seconds to grab hair- and toothbrush.
“Neil’s coming for us, bringing his truck. We’ll get you settled at my place. My guest room isn’t
this big, but it has a nice view. This is…this is everything?” He’d have to talk with Cyrus when the
man returned from Texas.
“It is. There weren’t much left in the apartment, eh, and Peter dealt with what all was there.”
Alain offered him a smile, but it didn’t quite reach the dark eyes. “Are you hungry? I can cook you
something…”
Right. Alain and Peter’s apartment had been ransacked after Alain was assaulted at that club. Neil
had told him all about it. What an awful thing. It had to make everything feel so much worse. “Thank
you, boy, but it’s late. I think we should get you settled in so you can rest. I’ll take you up on that
tomorrow night though, how does that sound?”
“Whatever you need, Sir. I’ll be good as Granny’s couche-couche, hmm?”
He chuckled as he nodded. “I have no idea what that is, but it sounds dirty.” He assumed it
wasn’t, but man… Alain literally spoke another language.
“Yummy, more. Although, it’s good for a lazy breakfast after getting it on, eh?”
“That sounds like a good morning to me.” Good Lord. The way Alain said “getting it on” was the
next best thing to the actual act. How did Cyrus live with this delicious boy without losing his mind?
“A la! I hear that. Master Cyrus don’t have no sexy times. He ain’t into me one bit, but he’s been
so dear, and me? I learned all the things, I swear.”
“Master Cyrus is a good man.” A good man with blue balls apparently. “Once you learn things,
then you have to go out and use them though. Right? I’m interested in hearing about what you’ve
learned.”
A submissive’s work was Cyrus’s specialty, and that meant addressing someone’s whole self.
Helping them figure out what they needed and then giving it to them.
The buzzer went off in the hall.
“Oh, that’ll be Neil. Are you almost ready?” He hurried down the hall to tell the doorman to let
Neil up.
“Yes, Sir. You want to meet him down there?” Alain looked so little carrying that big duffel.
He looked little because he was little. He was like half of Neil. “That’s a good idea.” He hit the
intercom. “Ask Neil to wait, please. We’ll be right down.”
So there, Neil. He thought smugly as they got in the elevator. I didn’t scare him or make him cry.
The big, buff blond waited at the bottom of the elevator. “Hey, y’all. Lord, give me that duffel,
kiddo. You’re gonna collapse under the weight.”
He’d known Neil would offer to get Alain’s bag, which was why he hadn’t. “Hi.” It was tempting
to kiss Neil’s cheek, but things with Neil were…complicated right now. Hell, Neil was complicated
all the time. With Alain here, Isaac wasn’t even sure which Neil he was dealing with. The switch was
really good at walking that middle line.
Sometimes they were friends, sometimes Dom and sub, sometimes one or the other with wild
benefits. But he wasn’t everything Neil needed. That just wasn’t possible.
So, no kiss. Just a smile. “Thanks for coming.”
“Any time.” Neil didn’t look at him, just took the bag, and when Alain gasped, Isaac was totally
surprised.
“Lord have mercy, what happened to you, Jole Blon?”
“Fistfight. I won.”
“Sure you did. You come from Texas.”
Won…and lost a week of work without pay. He wasn’t sure he’d call that winning. “Let me see,
Neil.”
“It’s no big deal, Doc…”
Oh. Doc. That meant stitches.
“Fine. Take us home. I’ll look at it later.” He didn’t want to argue in front of Alain. Now that he
knew Neil was hurt, he didn’t want to argue at all; in fact, he wanted Neil to answer his questions
with “Yes, Sir.” But that was going to have to wait until Alain was tucked in. “Car?”
“Right here.” The big SUV was an extravagance, but Neil used it for work with the Special
Victims Division, and at times like these, it came in handy.
They got Alain settled in the back seat and headed home. “Are you okay? Did you start it?”
“Seven stitches. He deserved it, and I’d do it again.” Neil’s lip curled. “I hate dirty cops.”
He sighed. “Neil. You can’t save the whole world by yourself.” How many times had he said
that?
“You gon’ have a neat scar, Officer,” Alain murmured.
“I can try, though. I can sure as shit try.”
He rested a hand on Neil’s thigh and let it be. It was too soon; Neil was still too angry. “Alain’s
right. You’re going to have a fancy Frankenstein scar.”
“You’ll check the stitches and make sure they’re right. You always do.” Neil’s huge, bruised hand
covered his.
“I will.” I’ll take care of you. “Alain’s offered to make dinner tomorrow night. I hope you’ll join
us.”
“Sure. I got no plans but watching TV in my apartment for a week. Whatcha cookin’, Cajun?”
“Couche-couche first, then whatever Mister Doctor Sir asks for.”
“Yeah? I ain’t had Cajun breakfast in ten hundred years.” Neil chuckled softly. “I don’t know that
Doc has cornmeal or a cast iron skillet, kiddo.”
“Well, that might be the first thing we do tomorrow. Shopping. What do you think, boy? Are you
ready to try some food shopping?” He thought maybe he had cast iron, but Neil did all the cooking in
his kitchen, so he’d know better.
“Oh, yes, Sir. I know groceries. I can fix you all whatever.”
“I’ll leave the menu to you, boy.” Alain seemed happy to be going out. That was good. So tonight
he’d deal with Neil, and tomorrow the boys would have a nice day. He glanced at Neil. “You know
where to park.”
“I do. It’s almost like I’ve been here once before.” Someone was pushing hard, daring him to take
control and give Neil what he needed.
 “Then you know what to expect,” he replied. He didn’t snap, but his tone was a bit curt. Dry.
Don’t test me in front of Alain, boy. Had he known Neil was going to be a handful, he might have
handled his evening differently. But here they were, and he would deal it. He refused to let Neil ruffle
his feathers while Alain was watching.
“I do.” Neil chuckled softly and parked the SUV. “I swear, my head’s so big I’m going to explode
with a terrifying kaboom.”
“I’ll have a look at it. You get some ice and some Tylenol when we get inside, please.” He got out
of the cop-mobile, grateful for his long legs, and opened the door for Alain, who climbed down like
he was scaling Mount Kilimanjaro.
Neil stepped out and went around to pull out Alain’s duffel, hauling it up on his shoulder.
It was strange to be more concerned about Neil than Alain at the moment. Alain had recovered
well from his assault physically, and it seemed like time with Cyrus had really helped him
emotionally too. He and Neil had had long discussions themselves at the time to get past their own
anger that someone could try to claim to be in their community and abuse a boy so terribly. Neil had
saved the world then too and put the men responsible behind bars.
He’d never asked what condition those assholes had been in when they arrived at the station. He
really hadn’t needed to.
“Alain, the guest room is here.” He stopped in the hall. “It’s pretty small. There are sheets in that
chest against the back wall.”
“It’s perfect, Mister Doctor. Thank you for letting me stay. I surely appreciate you.” God, that
voice was sweet, lilting, and Isaac liked the way it reminded him of music.
“I’m glad to have you. It will be good to catch-up.” He stepped aside to let Neil put the duffel
down on the bed, then caught his sometimes sub by the arm. “Tylenol. Ice. Did you eat?”
“Not since last night. Spaghetti.” Neil let him look, the stitches starting near his eye and leading
across his temple, the gunpowder stippling obvious.
Someone had shot at Neil, at close range.
He swallowed hard against the sick feeling in his stomach and caught Neil by the nape, finding the
hazel eyes and looking into them. He didn’t hide his frown or his worry and tried to say something,
anything. He couldn’t find the right words, and gave up, pulling Neil into a tight hug.
Neil trembled in his arms, arms wrapping around to hold him tight, and that spoke volumes, those
heavily muscled arms keeping him close.
“Jesus, Neil.” He told himself he was allowed to be upset for a minute. That gunpowder was
fucking terrifying, and he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now.”
Alain was doing his best to look invisible, sitting on the end of the bed with his nose in some
magazine Isaac had obviously left there. Such a good boy. He wondered if he should ask Alain to
throw something together for Neil after all.
“Let me stay a minute?” Neil whispered, the sound so very soft. “Please, Sir?”
“You’re staying the night, boy. I insist.” That was that. Neil had been clear, finally, so the rest was
up to him. “Alain, could I trouble you to make something easy on the stomach for Neil, please? Just
help yourself to my kitchen.”
“Yes, Sir!” Alain’s face lit up. “I’m on it. Poor chou. That looks like it hurt.”
“I’m okay, kiddo. Don’t you worry.”
“I’ll cook. You’ll be so good. You see.” Alain grinned at them both and slipped past them into the
hall.
“The kitchen is at the far end.”
Alain nodded and hurried down the hall.
Isaac let Neil go but kept hold of one hand. “Let’s sit. I want to know what happened.”
 2

L ord have mercy, Alain Remy Broussard thought his life had slip-slid from one bit of crazy to
another. From a little shotgun in Houma, playing with gris-gris bags and learning how to cook and
paint from his granny to traveling around the country with a band of performance artists to landing
here.
Here in the Big Apple.
Here in this apartment with two men that he knew because they’d saved him, along with Master
Cyrus and Brandon and his best bud, Peter.
Here in this kitchen with just about nothing that worked as food, god help him.
Alain had finally managed to make a workable rice pudding—complete with fat, plump raisins
and a dollop of cinnamon as a lagniappe. Easy on the belly, the Mister Doctor Sir had said.
Fine fucking man. Alain thought he could just kneel down and worship, in the best ways.
But first, food for the hurtin’ one, the chou.
That was the biggest thing.
“Are you doing okay? Neil needs some water. Man, what a day.” The doc stopped short and
looked around. “It smells great in here.”
Water. He’d seen a fancy-assed pitcher in the fridge. He could do that. “Rice pudding. You want
some too? It’s easy on the belly, yeah?”
“I’ll have a little bit. Thank you. I appreciate this; I didn’t bring you here to put you to work.”
“La, this ain’t working. This is feeding.” This was showing care for ones that showed care for
you.
Doctor Sir went to the fridge and took out the water and filled a glass. “It’s appreciated. Neil
needs some comfort food, so thank you.” Once the water was back in the fridge, Doc looked at him
like he was thinking hard. “We should talk about your needs while you’re here after we eat. What
your routine has been with Master Cyrus, so I can…try to fill that role for you.”
Wasn’t that dear as all get out? “If you want. I’m glad not to be on my all alones, huh? That’s a
blessing.”
He got a nod. “You’re a good boy, Alain. So sweet, so positive. It makes me happy to have you
around. I’m going to enjoy your company, I know it.”
Oh, didn’t that make him feel melty as ice cream in August. “Thank you, Mister Doctor Sir. I
’preciate that.”
“That’s quite a title you have for me, boy. You can just call me, Sir. That’ll do fine.” Doc gave his
shoulder a squeeze, then that hand slid down his back.
 Oo-ee! Didn’t that give him the shivers! He sucked in a lungful of air, his belly going tight.
“Good boy,” Doc whispered, then took a step away. “I’ll…uh. We can eat in the living room. Just
be comfy. If you need help bringing anything out, let me know, I’m going to…get this water to Neil.”
Doc hesitated just a second, then turned to leave. “Yep. Thanks.”
“Yes, Sir.” Oh, pretty pretty. He could just lick that pretty body all over. All. Over.
He fixed three bowls of pudding, found three spoons, and then went to figure out where the Doc
and Chou were.
He found them cuddled on the sofa, looking comfy as could be. Officer Neil was leaning against
Doc, and he patted the little empty spot on the couch for him to come sit.
“Mmm.” Neil hummed as he got closer.
“See? What did I tell you? It smells amazing, right?” Doc smiled at him.
“It smells warm and sweet and yummy. Is that cinnamon?”
Lawd, the officer was into Doc like whoa. “Oui, Chou. It’s good for what’s wrong with you.”
“Eat up, boy. You need the calories, whether you think you’re hungry or not.” Doc took a bowl
and let him hand one over to Chou. “Thank you, Alain. Have a seat. It’s close but there’s room.”
Now…how interesting was that? This was Doc’s boo? Chou sure didn’t seem like it, but
maybe… “Yes, Sir. I hope y’all like it.”
“Master Cyrus was very discreet about your recovery, but he talks a lot about your cooking.” Doc
took a taste, humming. “Mm. Oh, Neil, you’re going to love it. Thank you, Alain. It’s delicious.” Doc
proved his words by taking another big bite.
That felt so good inside him, yes it did. It felt like heaven.
Neil ate quietly, but he was eating, yes sir. He didn’t have a lot, but he had this. He could do this.
“So what are you into, Alain? Other than cooking, I mean, which is enough but…aren’t you an
artist too?”
“Yessir. I do performance art, and I paint some. Nothing fancy, but folks buy them sometimes.” He
liked to paint things that reminded him of home but looked more like here.
“This is real good, kiddo. Real good. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Chou.”
Doc was petting on Neil, touching his arms and shoulders, nuzzling his hair. “It’s pretty
comforting I think, don’t you? Is it sitting in your stomach okay?”
“Yes, Sir. This is…it’s delicious. Perfect.”
Alain beamed. He did like to hear that.
“So, Alain. Tell me what has been the best part of staying with Master Cyrus?”
The rules. He didn’t have to worry about what to do, he didn’t have to stress things, he just
followed the rules and Master Cyrus was pleased. “He’s been very kind and generous. I enjoy his
company.”
Doc chuckled. “He is both of those things.”
“You’re going to have to ask better questions, Sir.”
“No kidding. He’s worse than you are.”
“Sir wants to know about your work with Master Cyrus. What are your rules? The important ones.
We’ll need to know that.”
“We.” Doc chuckled again. “I heard that.”
Okay, that was confusing, and he was going to have to figure things out some, him. “I have chores.
No cussing. No saying mean things about myself. Used to I had to say no to lots of stuff, to prove I
knew how, but that’s better.”
 Doc nodded slowly. “Simple enough. Knowing how to say no can be hard, for lots of reasons. It’s
about respecting yourself, your time, your body…you have to know how to love yourself to say no.”
Alain nodded, because he knew he was supposed to, but honestly, he knew better. Self-love was
supposed to be a sin, and he hadn’t reckoned that in his soul.
Doc squinted at him, but the doubtful look turned to a wink and a smile. “I’ll come up with enough
chores to keep you busy.”
“Yes, Sir.” He really needed to put his head down and get himself a place with a couple three or
twelve roommates soon so that Master Cyrus didn’t have to stress on him no more.
“Does Master Cyrus have a bedtime routine for you? Or even a bedtime?”
“I go to my room at eight or nine so he got him some privacy after we have talks and stuff, and I
just keep it down with my tablet.” He was working hard at his art and his GED, but no one needed to
know about that.
“Nine sounds good to me too.”
Chou sat up a little, watching him. “What did you and Master Cyrus talk about before bed last
night?”
“Hrm…” He frowned. He’d made dirty rice, and then they’d had tea together. He’d sat on the
floor and they’d talked about the difference between pain and hurting. “We talked about… I—is that
like talking out the side of my mouth, Chou? I mean, I won’t disrespect him none and it was…about
—” Lord, Alain, don’t you know another word for fucking that ain’t fucking? “—intimate stuff.”
Go him!
“Sex.” Sure, Doc had a word for it. “If he told you something in confidence, then you shouldn’t
tell me. That would be disrespectful, right? But if you have something on your mind you can always
come to me.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to know.” Alain grinned and shook his head. “But for two guys
that ain’t having it, we chat on it and things around it a whole lot.”
Chou cracked up, just gorgeous, huge belly laughs.
Doc shook his head and rolled his eyes. “That sounds just like Cyrus. I mean…that’s…wow.”
“It is. Wow. It’s…the least hot thing ever.” He blinked at himself and clapped his hand over his
mouth.
Doc laughed that time, and Chou just kept right on going. “Sorry… I just…sorry!” The two of
them were giggling like fools.
Alain started to giggle too, the sound pushing out of his fingers and making fart noises, which
made everything worse.
“The thing is,” Doc started to say but had to stop for a breath. “The thing is, Cyrus can be hot, am
I right? Is hot, I mean. So…”
“He says that sometimes there’s chemistry, sometimes there’s not. But we’re bon amis, and he’s
good to me. He teaches me so much.” Now Doc? Blistering. Chou? Like a jungle gym to play on.
“I’m sure. This is what he does—he’s part therapist, part professional Dom. And it’s good to have
a friend.”
Chou set his empty bowl down on the table. “Personally, I prefer talk about sex to be sexy.”
Doc snorted. “That’s because you have a one-track mind. No sexy talk tonight; everyone’s tired.”
“Still…” Chou winked at the Doc, then winced as that face moved. “Thank you for inviting me to
stay, Sir.”
Doc kissed the top of Chou’s head. “I’ve got your back, boy. Always.”
More than that, he thought. He’d had seen what passed between them—that hug, the things they
didn’t say written on their faces.
It was a good thing, a fine connection, and he would respect that.
Mostly.
He might rub off to the thought.
“All right, boys. Clean up please, and then we’ll get Alain settled in his room.” Boys meant him
and Chou too? “Go on.”
“I c’n do the dishes. You want for me to save the rest? It’ll warm up nice.”
Chou sat up and gathered up bowls. “I can show you where the Tupperware is.”
Doc got up too, one hand gliding over Chou’s shoulders, then giving Alain’s shoulder a squeeze.
He nodded and took the bowls from Chou. Chou was hurtin’, and not in the fun way. “Come on,
you. Sit and keep me comp’ny. You got to be aching bad.”
They headed for the kitchen. “It hurts, but I’ve been hurt before. Doc knows me; when I get all in
my head I need to do something. Think less. Serve more.”
Think less, serve more. Master Cyrus would say stuff like that. He could serve this fine man, but
Chou was serving the doc, no? Should he ask questions? Did they want him to know?
Prolly not. “Well, I ’preciate y’all letting me stay. I’m still not all the best at being on my
lonesome.”
“Master Cyrus called Master Isaac for you. I’m sure they are doing what they think you need.
Master Isaac is super clear with things; he’s easy to work with. And he’s…well, he’s a doctor. He’s
kind, he’s careful.” Chou opened a cabinet and pulled out a container. “This should work.”
“Thank you. So y’all are…” Lovers? Fuckbuddies? Super real good friends?
“Complicated, kiddo. We’re vastly complicated.” Neil gave him a wicked wink that he felt in his
balls. Whoa.
“No shit. You’re his today, no? But not every day. I can’t figure it, me.” He laughed and put the
leftovers away.
“Folks aren’t always one thing or the other, yeah? Sometimes you need to be flexible.”
He tilted his head. “You a switch-hitter, are you?”
“Smart boy.”
“I know things.” Alain winked over, playing good and hard. “Especially sex things.”
“Oh yeah?” Chou winked right back. “Sounds like Cyrus missed an opportunity, then.”
He just kept giggling. “Oh, no. Him? Me? No, no.”
“No?” Chou chuckled softly. “You don’t want to be over his knee?”
“Been there. It wasn’t a bit hot, but after I felt like I could breathe.” He’d cried hard, and it had let
him yell even, about how fucking evil them men had been.
“That’s good. Too bad it wasn’t hot though.” Chou leaned closer. “It can be hot.”
“Chou, I got me no doubt of that.” His mouth watered at the thought, in fact. “None at all.”
Chou chuckled. “We better get you to your room before Sir starts thinking we’re having too much
fun.”
“God forbid, eh? Jus’ let me finish these dishes up.” He liked Chou. He liked him a lot.
“Sounds good. See you out there soon.” Chou gave him a smile and patted his shoulder, then left
the kitchen.
Lord have mercy. A Dommy doctor, a Texan cop with a death wish, and a pro-spanky Cajun walk
into a bar.
Ain’t that a bad goddamn joke.
 3

N eil knew that Isaac was going to make sure that he understood that he was supposed to call when
he got shot. Or nearly got shot.
He could almost hear the lecture.
He was looking forward to it, even, because then he could just let the worry flow over him.
It might be coming, but that wasn’t how it started. Once Alain was settled, Isaac pulled him to the
bedroom, closed the door, and spent a quiet minute with him, forehead to forehead, just breathing.
“You scare the fuck out of me.”
He filled his lungs with Isaac-flavored air. “Yeah. I scare the fuck out of me too.”
Isaac puffed out a breath and paced away. “Go kneel on your cushion.” His cushion was kind of
like a time-out chair; when he got sent there he knew he was going to be there a while.
“Yes, Sir.” He knew this spot—it was comfortable, solid. Safe. It’s safe. It’s safe here.
Isaac paced past him a couple of times. “What happened? And don’t give me the official story. I
want yours.”
“Barnette is dirty. On the take. I can’t prove it yet. I know it, but he’s local, dad and brothers are
on the force. I won’t apologize, and I’m not letting it go.” And Neil wasn’t going to let this shit slide.
It wasn’t in his makeup.
“Okay.” Isaac stopped in front of him. “Who have you asked for help?”
“No one. I’m not putting anyone else in the line of fire. You know that.” He was the outsider there,
and he knew it.
“And…who shot at you?” All the questions first without so much as a hint at what Isaac was
thinking.
“It was a misfire on the books. Bullet grazed me, hit the concrete wall beside me.” He knew that
wasn’t an answer, but he was going to try to get away with it.
Isaac growled, the first sign of how he was taking all of this. “I don’t give a shit about the books,
boy. Who fucking shot at you?”
“His brother. Beat cop.” He refused to drop his eyes.
Isaac stood his ground, too, and stared right back. This time his tone was quieter, serious and
even. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I needed to calm down.” He wouldn’t come to Isaac when he was on the edge of the cliff. That
wasn’t safe. “And we haven’t…been in each other’s pockets lately.”
“If you get shot, and someone is stitching you up, you call me. That’s the rule, Neil. It’s pretty
much our only rule. This is…” Isaac sighed and paced away. “Damn it, Neil. You know how I feel
about you. I’m not in your pocket because…because I’m not enough for you, and I’m trying to—I
understand. If I’m…if we’re together all the time, you’re not going to find what you need.”
“Fuck.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m—”
Just go home. Get up, asshole, and go home and just walk away. You’re making him unhappy.
You make everyone fucking unhappy.
“Stop.” Isaac marched back to him. “I’m sorry. That’s not what you need from me tonight. Not
what I promised you. Take a breath and listen to me.” Isaac took one with him, a deep breath in and a
long, slow exhalation. “It was a scary day. A hard day. But you’re okay, and you’re safe here. You’re
safe with me. And as long as you’re here, and you’re giving me this gift, you’re my boy. I don’t want
to change you. I just want you to be happy.”
“I want you. I need you. You know that. Fuck, Guapo, I love you.” And he’d never said that to
anyone but Isaac. Ever.
“I do know. I know.” Isaac’s palm settled against his cheek. “I love you too.”
He leaned hard, letting Isaac feel his weight, feel how he trusted his Dom, totally.
“That’s my sweet boy.” Isaac bent and kissed his forehead, then went to the small chest at the foot
of the bed. “Will you stay here this week? You and I can reconnect, you could even work with Alain
while I’m seeing patients…what do you think?”
What did he think? He thought he was exhausted down deep in his soul, and a few days of Isaac’s
attention, playing with Alain, and cooking sounded like heaven. “If you’ll have me, I’m here.”
“I will always have you.” Isaac returned with his cuffs. “These are for tonight, to help you settle.
After tonight, our usual agreement about taking them off when you feel you need to still applies, even
here in the apartment. Alain…complicates the place a bit.” Isaac snorted and grinned. “Because
we’re not complicated enough already, right?”
“You know it.” He rolled his eyes, ignoring the little twinge. “He’s fairly savvy. He picked up on
things in a rush.” That was handy, because he felt like there ought to be a place for men like him in the
world.
“Oh good. That makes this simpler for you. Maybe you can find some of the balance you need
with him here. Now, stand up, boy. You’re too tired for a scene tonight, so I think I’m just going to
give you a very Toppy snuggle. Aggressive snuggling. Rar.”
Neil glanced up at Isaac and began to laugh—deep, hard belly laughs that almost hurt. “God, I
love you more than is reasonable. I swear by all I hold holy, you make me happy.”
Isaac grinned and helped him up. “I love that sound—you laughing. I just love it.”
He pushed into Isaac’s arms with a sigh, taking that wholly Dommy snuggle with his entire soul.
Isaac hugged him hard, then started to undress him. “I do want to see you naked, even if it is just a
snuggle.”
He craved the way Isaac saw him. It was just right—and why he couldn’t be satisfied with that, he
didn’t know.
Isaac took his time, fingers ghosting over bruises. “Hm. So this was actually a fistfight that ended
with a gunshot, then?”
“The fistfight happened earlier in the day. The gunshot was a few hours later.”
Isaac snorted, pulling off his own clothing. “You know I would prefer that you stay alive and in
one piece, right? You don’t have to go looking for trouble; I’d be more than happy to give you marks
that would be way more meaningful.”
“You know I’d wear them.” These scars just proved that he was a cowboy in a strange land.
“But the question is, if you did, would you stop taking so many risks at work?” Isaac pulled back
the covers and climbed in. “Come on.”
He knew that neither of them wanted the truth there, so he slid in next to Isaac with a sigh.
“Hm. Yeah.” Isaac pulled him in, careful of his stitches, and tucked an arm around him. “You can
take the cowboy out of Texas…”
“But I’m always going to be Wild West.” He kissed the underneath of Isaac’s jaw.
“Mhm. I told you I don’t want to change you. And I like a little wild.” Isaac drew a line down one
arm with one finger. “So… Alain’s adorable, isn’t he?”
“He’s funny as fuck, honey, and utterly not into Cyrus. So goddamn cute.”
“No,” Isaac laughed. “The way he talks about Cyrus is too funny. But you can tell, right? He’s not
stable yet. He’s so positive though; everything is on the bright side, and it’s refreshing.”
“He’s got an internal joy, yeah. He shines.” He didn’t think Alain was any less stable than he was.
Certain folks were…tilty by nature.
“That’s it. He shines. He does.” Isaac chuckled. “Between the two of you I’m going to eat very
well this week.”
“I’m looking forward to that, if I’m honest. I do love cooking with folks.”
“Good. You can be all Toppy and order him around in the kitchen.” Isaac’s tone was teasing.
“I so can. I’ll get my bossy pants on.” He was more than willing to tease back. Hell, he was more
than willing to give Alain a Dom for a little while.
“Maybe this will be good for us. For you? Like a trial run.” Isaac sounded…hopeful.
“A trial Domming?” Was that a thing? It could totally be a thing.
“A trial switching.” Isaac chuckled.
They glanced at each other, then they both just cracked up, howling with wild laughter all over
again.
“You’re ridiculous.” Isaac tilted his chin up, fingers so careful and gentle, and kissed him.
Yeah, but he was Isaac’s somehow, all the way to the bone.
“Tomorrow when I get home we’ll have a scene to get us both back in the right headspace again.
It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Six months, give or take.” They both worked their asses off. They had different lives, different
worlds, but that didn’t matter, at the core of things.
Isaac stared at him. “Six months? No…it can’t have been that long.”
“Yeah, babe. It’s been a while. We didn’t—and we had to help Alain and then your sister visited,
and I was working that case…” It happened.
“Jesus. Let’s not let that happen again. Six months…no wonder I was missing you so much. Fuck,
we definitely need a scene.”
“Yes. Yes, please. I ache for you.” And that was that.
“Not tonight, as tempting as you are. Tonight you need your rest. Tomorrow, I’ll dream something
up while I’m working. Something to satisfy us both.” Isaac dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Something that will leave a mark.”
“Yes, Sir. That would make me proud.”
He swore he could feel Isaac’s chest fill at his words. “My good boy. Six months or six minutes.
It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t make you any less mine.”
Neil leaned in hard, almost cuddling—a manly cuddling, but a snuggle, nonetheless.
“I’m right here. This is our space, right? Close your eyes. Let everything go. There’s no work
here, no world to save, it’s just us.”
I love you, Guapo. So much.
More than he could say.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
“Why—why, he said he might call Tuesday evening. Of course if you
had rather he didn’t—”
“I told you I hadn’t any objections, provided he doesn’t come too
often. Asked you to drop in at the Tobias Eldridge place, I suppose?”
“Ye-es. Yes, he said something about it; but I told him I couldn’t do
that.”
“Good girl.... Well, all right. Good-night.”
She bent over his chair back and kissed him.
“I think it is very sweet of you to let him come here at all,” she said. “I
—I don’t see how you can—considering who he is.”
“Who he is?... Humph!... Well, he is a friend of yours and I don’t want
to stand between you and your friends. Besides—which is what you
mean, of course—he is a Cook and when I deal with one of them I
always feel safer if he is where—”
He did not finish the sentence. “Where—? What were you going to
say?” she asked.
He was fearful that he had already said too much. “Nothing, nothing,”
he said. “Good-night, dearie. I must finish my letter.”
The letter was to Mrs. Jane Carter, in Boston, and he did finish it
before he went to bed.
Bob came on Tuesday evening and again Foster Townsend left the
young people alone in the library. The stay this time was longer. He
came again on Friday and on the following Tuesday. Townsend said
nothing, but he thought a good deal. He began to wish that he had
followed his own inclination and forbidden the pair of young idiots to
see each other at all. His questions to Esther, put very guardedly,
seemed to warrant the belief that, so far at least, her feeling toward
Griffin was merely that of friendship; but friendship at that age was
dangerous. It must be broken off—and soon.
 CHAPTER X
MRS. CARTER had not yet replied to his letter. He wrote another,
stating his case more succinctly and intimating that he expected
compliance with his wishes. He even dropped a hint concerning her
obligation to him, something he had never done before.
“It may upset your plans a little,” he wrote, “and I suppose you feel
that you can’t shut up that house of yours and turn your other
lodgers adrift. Well, I don’t ask you to do that. Find some one who
can handle the craft while you are away and I will pay the bill. I have
heard you say that it was the dream of your life to go where I am
planning to send you. Here is your dream come true. You like the girl
and she likes you. You are the only one in sight that I should feel
safe to trust as skipper of a cruise like this one, with her aboard. You
have always declared that, if ever you could do anything for me, you
would do it if it killed you. Well, this won’t kill you. It may do you
good. If anything can shake the reefs out of that Boston canvas of
yours I should say this might be the thing. You will sail freer
afterwards and you will have something to talk about besides the
gilding on the State House dome. Let me hear from you right away.”
He did not hear, however. Another week passed and he had not
heard. Bob Griffin called twice more during that week. And on
Sunday, after service, while Foster Townsend stood on the church
steps chatting with Captain Ben Snow, from the corner of his eye he
saw Esther and Bob talking together and noticed, quite as clearly,
the significant glances and whisperings of his fellow worshipers as
they, too, watched the pair.
Harniss was beginning to talk, of course. Neighbors had seen Griffin
entering the yard of the mansion evening after evening. Curious
eyes had remained open later than was their custom to note the hour
at which he left that yard. And they were noting that, whereas the
said hour was in the beginning as early as nine-thirty, it was now ten-
thirty or, on one occasion, close to eleven. “What is Cap’n Foster
thinking about?” people wanted to know. “Elisha Cook’s grandson
coming to that house! Doesn’t the Cap’n realize what is going on? If
he don’t somebody ought to tell him.”
Nobody did tell him; no one would have dared. Various reasons for
his permitting the visits were suggested. For the most part these
reasons were connected with the lawsuit. Perhaps Griffin had
quarreled with his grandfather. That might be why he had hired
Tobias Eldridge’s shanty and was spending his days there instead of
in Denboro, where he belonged. Perhaps he and Elisha Cook had
had a row and Bob had deserted to the enemy. He might be giving
Townsend inside information which would help the latter and his
lawyers. Perhaps Townsend had bought the boy off. He had money
enough to buy anybody or anything, if he cared to use it.
Millard Fillmore Clark, as an “in-law” and a possible though but
remotely possible, source of information was questioned. Mr. Clark’s
replies to all queries were non-committal and dignified. One gathered
that he knew a great deal but was under oath to reveal nothing.
“You let us alone,” he said, loftily, “We ’tend to our business and we
generally know what that business is. Wait a little spell. Just wait.
Then I guess you’ll see what you do see.”
The few who dared drop a hint to Reliance left unsatisfied. Mrs.
Wheeler, who boasted that she made it a point to give her custom to
the “native tradespeople” whenever possible, was one of these few.
She had graciously permitted the Clark-Makepeace millinery shop to
fashion for her what she called a “garden hat,” and she dropped in at
the room in the rear of the post office building ostensibly to see how
the fashioning was progressing. After the usual preliminaries of
weather, health and church matters had been touched upon, she
broached another subject.
“I hear Captain Townsend’s attractive niece has developed a new
talent,” she observed, with a smile. “I always supposed music was
her specialty. Now I understand she has taken up painting.”
Reliance looked up from the garden hat, which was in her lap. Then
she looked down again.
“Has she?” she asked, calmly. “I didn’t know it.”
Mrs. Wheeler smiled once more. “So they say,” she affirmed. “She
has developed a fondness for art.”
“Is that so.... Don’t you think the bow would look better on the side
than right in front, Mrs. Wheeler?”
Considering how very particular—not to say fussy—the lady had
hitherto been concerning that hat she seemed surprisingly indifferent
to the position of the bow.
“No doubt,” she said, carelessly. “Arrange it as you think best, Miss
Clark.... Yes, Miss Townsend seems to be devoted to art at present
—or, at least, to an artist. Ha, ha! I know nothing of it, of course, but I
have heard such a rumor.”
Abbie Makepeace, who was a little deaf although she would never
admit it, put in a word.
“You can’t put too much dependence on what Maria Bloomer says,”
she declared. “She’ll say anything that comes into her head. All them
Bloomers are alike that way.”
Their patron regarded her coldly. “I said ‘rumor,’ not Bloomer,” she
corrected.
“Oh! Yes, yes, I see. One of Seth Payne’s roomers, was it? He’s got
a houseful of ’em this summer, so they tell me. Why, there’s a couple
there from somewheres out West—Milwaukee—or Missouri, or
somewheres; begins with a M, anyway. They’re awful queer folks.
Take their meals at Emeline Ryder’s and Emeline says she never
had such cranky mealers at her table, before nor since. Why, one
day, so she says, the man—I do wish I could remember his name—
found fault with the beefsteak they had for dinner; said ’twas too
tough to eat. Now, accordin’ to Emeline ’twas as good top of the
round steak as she could buy out of the butcher cart, and she’d
pounded it with the potato masher for half an hour before she put it
in the fryin’ pan. She lost her patience and says she: ‘Now, look
here, Mr. ——’. Oh, dear, dear! What is that man’s name? Funny I
can’t remember it. What is it, Reliance? Do tell me, for mercy sakes!”
Reliance could not remember, either, but she suggested various
names, none of which was exactly right. Mrs. Wheeler departed in
disgust before the matter was settled. Miss Makepeace commented
upon the manner of her exit.
“What made her switch out that way?” she inquired, in surprise.
“Acted as if she was out of sorts about somethin’, seemed to me.
Don’t you suppose she liked the hat, Reliance?”
Reliance smiled. “It wasn’t the hat that brought her here,” she
observed. “That woman was fishin’, Abbie.”
“Fishin’! What are you talkin’ about? Fishin’ for what?”
“For what she didn’t get. She wouldn’t have got it from me, anyhow,
but you saved me the trouble of tellin’ her so and, maybe, losin’ us a
customer. Do you remember that man in the Bible who wanted bread
and somebody gave him a stone? Well, that Wheeler woman wanted
news and what she got was a tough beefsteak. Serve her right.
Much obliged to you, Abbie.”
Abbie had not listened to the last part of this speech. Now she
clapped her hands in satisfaction.
“There!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got it at last. When you said somethin’
about a stone it came to me. Stone made me think of brick and brick
was what I wanted. That man’s name is Clay. Tut, tut! Well, I shan’t
forget it next time.”
That evening, when Esther came down to supper, it seemed to her
that her uncle was in far better humor than he had been for some
time. During the past week he had been somewhat taciturn and
grumpy. She suspected that matters connected with the lawsuit
might not be progressing to his satisfaction, but when she asked he
brusquely told her that was all right enough, so far as it went,
although it went almighty slow. Then her suspicions shifted and she
began to fear that, perhaps, he did not like Bob’s calling so
frequently. He had never offered objections to the calls, greeted the
young man pleasantly and usually left the pair together for the
greater part of the evening. Nevertheless—or so she fancied—his
greetings were a trifle less hearty now than they had been at first.
And, on the morning following Griffin’s most recent call, he said
something at the breakfast table which was disturbing. She had
thought of it many times since.
“Well,” he observed, after the maid had left them together, “how is
the great picture painter these days? Getting to be a pretty regular
visitor, isn’t he? Coming again Tuesday night, I suppose? Eh?”
Esther, taken by surprise, colored and hesitated.
“Why—why, I don’t know, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “He didn’t say
he was.”
“Didn’t need to, perhaps. Probably thought you might take it for
granted by this time. Tuesdays and Fridays on his calendar seem to
be marked with your initials. Those other young chaps who used to
drop in here once in a while appear to have sheered off. I wonder
why.”
Esther looked at him. He was smiling, so she smiled also.
“If you mean George Bartlett,” she said. “He has gone back to
Boston. His vacation is over. And Fred Winthrop is—well, I don’t
know why he doesn’t come, I am sure. I don’t like him, anyway.”
“Perhaps he guessed as much. You do like this Griffin, I take it.”
Esther had ceased to smile. “Why, yes, I do,” she declared. “I told
you I did. He is a nice boy and I do like him. But, Uncle Foster, I don’t
see why you speak this way. If you think—”
“There, there!” rather testily. “I said, in the beginning, that I wasn’t
going to think anything. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t have any
secrets from each other, so why should I think?”
“You shouldn’t. Uncle Foster, if you don’t want Bob to come here—”
“Sshh! I told you he could come—if he didn’t come too often.”
“So you do think he is coming too often?”
“I didn’t say so. I was just wondering what his grandfather might be
thinking about it. He has told the old man, of course?”
He had not and Esther knew it. Bob had announced his intention of
telling his grandfather of his friendship with Foster Townsend’s niece,
but he had put off the telling, waiting, he said, for a favorable
opportunity. Townsend, keenly scrutinizing the girl’s face, read his
answer there.
“Well, well,” he added, before she could reply. “That is his business,
not yours nor mine, my dear. Only,” he said, with a grim chuckle, “I
shall be interested to hear how Elisha takes the news.”
It was this which had troubled Esther ever since. And now Tuesday
evening had arrived and, in an hour or two, unless her surmise was
very wrong indeed, Bob himself would come. If he had not told Mr.
Cook he must do so at once. She should insist upon it.
She thought about this during supper, but afterward, when they were
together in the library, her uncle made an announcement that drove
every other thought from her mind. He seated himself as usual in the
big easy-chair, but he did not pick up the newspaper which lay upon
the table. Instead he thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at
her.
“Esther,” he said, “I’ve got some news for you. You’re going to be
surprised. How long will it take you to get ready to start for Paris?”
She stared at him in utter amazement.
“To Paris!” she repeated.
“Um-hum. That is what I said. To Paris, France. How long before you
can get ready to start for there? I hope not too long, because now
that it is settled you are going the sooner you get away the better.”
She caught her breath. He must be joking—he must be. Yet he
seemed quite sincere.
“To Paris?” she cried. “Why, Uncle Foster! What do you mean? Are
we going to Paris—now?”
He shook his head. “Not quite such good luck as that,” he answered,
with a sigh. “I had intended that we should go together. I had
promised myself that cruise with you and I had counted on it. But I
can’t get away for a while. My lawyers say they need me here and
that I can’t be spared. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go.
Ever since that concert I have heard nothing but what a fine voice
you’ve got and that it ought to be cultivated up to the top notch. Paris
is the place where they do that kind of cultivating and there is where
you ought to be. No use wasting time. I have been tempted to be
selfish and keep you here along with me. I’ve thought up every
excuse for keeping you, but they aren’t good enough. The minute
this blasted suit is tried—or settled—or put off again or something, I’ll
take the next ship and come to you as quick as it will take me. But
you must go now. And I’ve got exactly the right person to go with
you,” he added, earnestly.
She would have spoken, have protested perhaps, but he held up his
hand.
“No, wait,” he commanded. “Just wait and listen. It’s all planned,
every bit of it.”
He went on to tell of the plan. The person who was to accompany
her, who was to be in charge of everything, was Mrs. Jane Carter of
Boston. She was very fond of Esther and the latter was equally fond
of her. She was wise and capable and refined and educated; she
was everything which a companion for the finest girl in the world
should be. He and she had been in correspondence for some time.
Mrs. Carter was to leave her house and her lodgers in charge of a
friend and was prepared to start within two or three weeks, if
necessary.
“You and she can spend the summer traveling together, if you want
to,” he went on. “There will be arrangements to make, and lots of
things to find out about before you begin with your studies. You’ll
have a good time—and I’ll have as good a time as I can until I can
get over there with you. There! that’s the plan. Pretty good one, too, I
think. What do you say to it?”
She did not know what to say. The suddenness of its disclosure, the
surprise, the conviction by this time forced upon her that her trip
abroad was to be an actual, immediate reality and not the vaguely
marvelous dream which had been in her mind for so long, were too
overwhelming to permit her to think at all, much less speak or
reason.
In the endeavor to answer, to say something, she turned toward him
and caught him off his guard. He was regarding her with a look of
love and longing, which touched her to the core. It vanished as he
saw her look and he smiled again, but she sprang from the rocker
and, running to his side, put her arms about his neck and pressed
her cheek to his.
“Oh, no, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “No, I can’t do it. It is wonderful of
you to plan such a thing for me. It is just like you. You are—oh, you
are— But I can’t go. It would be too selfish. I can’t go and leave you
—all alone, here at home. It wouldn’t be right at all. No, I’ll wait until
we can go together.”
He took her hand in his and held it tight. “Oh, yes, you will, dearie,”
he declared. “You’ll go because I want you to. I’ll be lonesome
without you. Good Lord, yes! I’ll be lonesome, but I can stand it for a
while. You’ll go. I want you to go. It is all settled—Eh? Confound it!
there’s the bell. Who is coming here to-night? I don’t want to see
anybody.”
She, too, had heard the bell and she knew who had rung it. She had
forgotten, but now she remembered. She withdrew her hand from
her uncle’s grasp:
“It is—I suppose it is—” she began; and then added, impulsively:
“Oh, I wish he hadn’t come!”
Foster Townsend looked up at her.
“Eh?” he queried. “Oh, yes, yes! I forgot. Tuesday night, isn’t it. Well,
all right; you and I can finish our talk to-morrow just as well.... Here!
Where are you going?”
She was on her way to the door.
“I am going to tell him I can’t see him to-night,” she said.
“No, no! Don’t do any such thing. Of course you’ll see him. You’ve
got some news for him, too. He’ll be surprised, of course—and
delighted, maybe.”
There was an odd significance in the tone of this last speech which
caused her to turn quickly and look at him. At that moment Bob’s
voice was heard in the hall and, an instant later, he entered the
library. One glance at the pair made him aware that he had
interrupted a scene of some kind. Esther’s eyes were wet and her
manner oddly excited. Her “good evening” was almost perfunctory
and she kept looking at her uncle instead of at him. Foster
Townsend, also, seemed a little queer. His handshake was as off-
hand as usual; Bob never considered it more than a meaningless
condescension to the formalities. That there was behind it any real
cordiality he doubted. Esther’s uncle could scarcely be expected to
love him; that was natural enough, considering whose grandson he
was. And there was an occasional tartness or sarcasm in the
Townsend speech and a look or two in his direction from the
Townsend eyes, which confirmed his suspicion that, although
Captain Foster, for some reason, permitted him to call at the
mansion, he was far from overjoyed to see him there.
To-night—or perhaps he imagined it—the sarcasm was even more in
evidence.
“Hello, Griffin!” said the captain. “How are you?”
Bob thanked him and said that he was well.
“That’s good. Painted any more pictures to give away, lately?”
Bob smilingly shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said.
“That so? Haven’t sold any either, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph! Kind of dull times in the trade, I should say. Take you a
good while to make a million at that rate, won’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. But I shall be satisfied with a good deal less than a
million.”
“So? You aren’t as grasping as some of your family, then.”
Bob thought it time to change the subject. He turned to the other
member of the trio.
“How are you, Esther?” he asked. “Any news since I saw you?”
Esther absently replied that there was no news. Her uncle laughed.
“She doesn’t mean that, Griffin,” he declared. “There is some news,
big news. We were just talking about it when you came in. Weren’t
we, Esther?”
“Why—why yes, Uncle Foster, we were.”
“Yes, we were. Well, I’ll leave you to tell it. Good-night.”
He turned toward the hall door. She had not forgotten the look she
had seen upon his face that instant when the smiling mask had
fallen. It had shown her a little of his real feeling, something of what
the sacrifice of her companionship meant to him. She had never
loved him as she loved him now.
“Oh, don’t go away, Uncle Foster,” she begged. “You’re not going to
bed so soon. Stay here with us. We want you to. Don’t we, Bob?”
“Certainly, of course,” agreed Bob. Townsend shook his head.
“Can’t,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got another letter to write Jane
Carter and I want it to go in the morning mail. Good-night, Esther.
Good-night, Griffin.”
He went out and the door closed. Esther remained standing, looking
after him. Bob grinned. Then he drew a long breath.
“Whew!” he exclaimed in evident relief. “That storm blew over
quicker than I thought it would. The way he lit into me when I first
came—and the queer way you both looked and acted when I walked
into this room—made me wonder what had happened. What is up,
Esther?”
She did not answer. His grin became a laugh.
“Did you hear him give me that dig about painting pictures to give
away?” he asked. “And that other one about not being grasping as
some one else in the family? That was a whack at grandfather and
the lawsuit, of course. I thought I might be in for a row, but he was
pleasant enough when he said good-night. I wonder—”
She surprised him then.
“Oh, don’t!” she broke in, impatiently. “Don’t! He is the best, the
kindest man in the whole world. Don’t you dare say he isn’t.”
He looked at her in astonishment. Then he whistled.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Don’t take my head off. I didn’t say he
wasn’t good and kind and all that. I think he is. I rather like him, as a
matter of fact; even if he doesn’t like me.”
She turned upon him. “Now why do you say that?” she demanded. “If
he doesn’t like you why does he let you come here—to this house?
You haven’t any reason to say he doesn’t like you.”
“Maybe not. Perhaps he does like me. I hope he does. I want him to.
As for his letting me come here to see you, I must say it’s mighty
decent of him. I doubt if I should, if I were in his place—considering
who I am. Come, Esther, don’t pitch into me this way. What have I
done?”
She smiled then. “Oh, you haven’t done anything, Bob,” she said. “I
am just—oh, excited and upset, that’s all. Uncle Foster has just told
me the most wonderful thing. He is going to let me do what I have
wanted to do for years and—and I ought to be very happy. I think I
should be if it weren’t that I know how terribly lonely he is going to be
without me.”
“Without you! What do you mean by that? Are you going
somewhere? Is this the big news he was hinting at? Why, Esther!
You aren’t going away, are you?”
She sat in the rocker. He was regarding her anxiously. She nodded.
“Yes, Bob,” she said, gravely. “I am. I am going abroad to study. I
didn’t know a word about it until a few minutes ago. Uncle has
planned it all. I am going with Mrs. Carter and—”
He interrupted. “What!” he cried. “You are going abroad?... When?”
“I don’t know exactly. But very soon.”
“How long are you going to stay there?”
“I don’t know that, either. A year at least, I suppose. Perhaps longer.”
“Indeed you are not!”
“Why, Bob Griffin! What do you mean?”
“I mean—well, never mind now. I guess I don’t know what I mean.
Or, if I do, it can wait. Tell me all about it. Tell me!”
So she told him, told as much of the plan as her uncle had told her.
He listened without speaking. At the end she said: “If I weren’t for
leaving him I should be so wildly happy I shouldn’t know what to do.
But, oh, Bob, I know what letting me go means to him. And he had
planned to go with me. He and I have talked ever so many times
about going to Paris together. Now he can’t go. That miserable suit
and the horrid lawyers are keeping him here. But because he thinks I
ought to go he is sending me and not thinking of himself at all. He
will be perfectly wretched without me. I know it. I almost feel like
saying that I won’t go until he does. Perhaps I ought to say it—and
stick to it. What do you think?”
He did not reply, nor did he look at her. She bent forward to look at
him.
“Why, Bob!” she cried. “What is the matter?”
He shook his head. “I wonder if you think your uncle is going to be
the only wretched person in this neighborhood?” he muttered. “Do
you think that?”
“Why—why, I suppose Aunt Reliance will miss me.”
He looked up then. “How about me?” he asked.
“You! You?... Why—why, Bob, I don’t believe I thought of you.”
“I don’t believe you did. I am afraid you didn’t. But do you imagine I
shall be—well, altogether joyful?”
She could not answer. For, all at once, she was thinking of him. It
seemed strange that she had not done it before. She had not
realized that her glorious trip meant the end of their companionship.
If not the end, then at least a year of separation. And suddenly, with
the realization, came a new feeling—a rush of feelings. She gasped.
“Why—why, Bob—” she faltered.
He had risen and was standing beside her, bending over her.
“Esther,” he pleaded, desperately, “do you suppose I shan’t be
completely miserable if you go away and leave me? Why—why, you
know it! You must know it! What do you suppose my knowing you
and—and being with you, like this, means to me? Esther, doesn’t it
mean anything to you—anything at all?”
She was beginning to comprehend what it did mean. But she knew
she must not think it. It was impossible—it was insane—it was—
“Oh, don’t, Bob! Don’t!” she begged. “You—you mustn’t—”
“I must. I’ve got to. It may be my only chance. Esther, don’t you care
anything about me? I thought—I was beginning to hope— Oh,
Esther, you are the only girl in the world for me. I love you.”
“Bob! Bob! Don’t!”
“I do. I love you. Say you love me! Say it! Say it!”
She had risen to her feet. Some wild idea of escape—of running
from the room—was in her mind. But his arms were about her.
“Say it! Say it, dear!” he pleaded.
“No, no! I mustn’t! You mustn’t—”
“You do love me? You do, don’t you, Esther?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I— Oh, of course I don’t! I mustn’t! Let me go.”
“No, I shan’t let you go until you tell me. You do care for me, dear?
Tell me you do.”
“No, Bob.... Oh, please let me go!”
She was crying. He released her and stepped back from the chair.
For an instant he stood there and then, lifting his hands and letting
them fall again in surrender, turned away.
“Oh, well!” he sighed, miserably. “Well—there! I see how it is. I was a
fool, of course. I ought to have known. I am sorry, Esther. Forgive
me, if you can.”
She had sunk down into the rocker once more and was sobbing, her
face buried in the cushion upon its back. He spoke again.
“I hope you can forgive me,” he begged. “I didn’t mean to say those
things to you—yet. Some day of course, after you had known me
longer—and—but I had no idea of saying them now. It was your
telling me you were going away—for years—and leaving me— Well,
it drove me crazy, that’s all. I am sorry. Of course I don’t blame you in
the least. There is no reason why you should care for me—and
plenty why you shouldn’t, I suppose. I don’t amount to much, I
guess. Don’t cry any more. I am awfully sorry I hurt your feelings.”
The head pressed against the cushion moved back and forth.
“You haven’t hurt them,” she murmured, chokingly. “I don’t know why
I am crying. I—I won’t any more.”
She sat up, fumbled for her handkerchief, and hurriedly wiped her
eyes.
“Then you do forgive me?” he urged.
“There was nothing to forgive.... No,” earnestly. “No, Bob, you
mustn’t. Please don’t!... I—I think you had better go now.”
He took a step toward the door. Then he paused and turned.
“Then it is all over, I suppose?” he said. “You don’t care for me at
all?”
Her lips opened to form the No which she knew must be said, which
she had determined to say. But when her eyes met his the resolution
faltered—broke.
“Don’t ask me, Bob, please!” she begged, in desperation. “I—I— Oh,
even if I did, what difference would it make? It is perfectly impossible
—you and I— You know it is!”
He was at her side again and this time he would not be denied. He
held her close and kissed her. Then he stepped back and laughed
aloud.
“That is all I wanted to know,” he cried, in triumph. “You do care. That
is enough. That is all that matters. Now let’s see them keep us apart!
You are mine—and you are going to be mine, always, forever and
ever, amen. Ha! Now let them try to stop it!”
She regarded him in wonder.
“You can laugh!” she exclaimed, reproachfully.
“You bet I can laugh! I was beginning to think I never should laugh
again, but now— Ha! They may send you to Paris or to Jericho, it
doesn’t make any difference now, Esther—”
But she held out her hands imploringly.
“Please go now, Bob,” she urged. “I must think this all over, before—
before we talk any more. I must. It is—oh, it is all as crazy as can be
and I must think it over by myself.... You will go now, won’t you, for
my sake?”
He hesitated. Then he nodded.
“Certainly I will, if you want me to,” he said. “But no matter how much
you think it doesn’t change the fact that we love each other and
belong to each other. That is settled.... Good-night, dearest. I’ll see
you Friday evening, of course. And then we can talk, can’t we.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know what I
may have decided by that time. I am not sure that I am doing right in
letting you come on Friday—or any more at all. I am not sure of
anything.”
“I am. And I shall be thinking, too. This Paris business—well, I may
have something to say about that. I have an idea of my own—or a
part of one. It has just this minute come to me. I’ll tell you about it
then. Good-night.”
When Esther tiptoed up the stairs to her room she devoutly hoped
that her uncle’s door might be closed. She simply could not face him,
or speak with him. She dreaded those keen eyes of his. The door
was open, however, and he called to her.
“What!” he cried. “That young fellow gone so early? He’s been
standing longer watches than this lately. What’s the matter? Anything
happened?”
She did not pause and she tried hard to make her tone casual.
“Oh, no,” she answered. “Nothing has happened. Good-night, Uncle
dear.”
He chuckled to himself. In spite of her care there had been a tremor
in her voice. He guessed the reason, or thought he did. She had told
Griffin of the European trip and he—and perhaps she—had come to
realize that it meant the end of their association. Well, that is exactly
what he intended it to mean. No doubt they both regretted the
parting. Never mind. Esther would soon get over it. Better a trifling
heartache now than a big one later on. She should not marry Elisha
Cook’s grandson if he were the only man on earth. His own
heartache at the thought of losing her for a time was soothed by the
certainty that once more he was having his own way.
 CHAPTER XI
ESTHER’S hours of sleep that night were few indeed. She was
happy one moment and miserable the next. Bob loved her—he told
her so. And she loved him, she was sure of it now. But did they love
each other enough? Were they sufficiently certain of that love to go
on to face its inevitable consequences, regardless of what those
consequences must mean to themselves and to others? For if they
were not, both of them, absolutely sure, those consequences were
too tremendous to be faced. Her uncle had permitted friendship
between Elisha Cook’s grandson and herself—the fact of his doing
so was still an unexplainable mystery to her—but she was certain
that he would never consent to their marriage. And Bob’s grandfather
would be equally resolute in his opposition. It was one thing to say,
as Bob had said, that the family feud had no part in their lives. It had.
She loved her uncle dearly and she knew that he idolized her. She
owed him a debt of gratitude beyond the limits of measure. Only one
reason could ever be strong enough to warrant her risking the end of
their affectionate association and the repudiation of that debt. If she
were certain that she loved Bob Griffin—really loved him and would
always love him—then nothing else mattered. Except, of course, the
same certainty of his enduring love for her. But were they certain?
They had known each other such a short time.
And there were other considerations. Her future with her beloved
music, the career she had dreamed. She had no money of her own.
Bob had some, but not a great deal. He was almost as dependent
upon his grandfather as she was upon Foster Townsend. Might not
his chances for fame and success as an artist be wrecked if he
married her? She must think of that, too. There was so much to think
of. She thought and thought, but morning brought no definite
conclusion except one, which was that she must continue to think
and, meanwhile, there must be no plighted troth, no engagement, no
definite promise of any kind between them. She would tell Bob that
when they next met. If he really loved her he would understand and
be willing to wait, as she would wait, and see.
She came downstairs early and found that her uncle was an even
earlier riser. He had gone out to the stable, so Nabby said, but
would, of course, come in to breakfast when called. And he had
already told Mrs. Gifford of Esther’s coming trip abroad. Nabby was
excited and even more voluble than usual.
“I suspicioned there was somethin’ up,” she declared. “He’s been
nervous and uneasy for over a fortni’t. And cranky—my soul! He was
like a dog with one flea, you never could tell the place he’d snap at
next. Varunas noticed it too, of course, and he was consider’ble
worried about it. Honest, I cal’late Varunas was beginnin’ to be afraid
that your uncle was losin’ his mind or somethin’. ‘He’s touched in the
head, I do believe,’ he said. ‘If he ain’t why does he allow that
grandson of ’Lisha Cook’s to come here so twice a week reg’lar? A
Cook don’t belong in this house and you know it, Nabby. What is he
let come here for?’
“Well, I didn’t know why, of course, but I never see Foster Townsend
yet when he didn’t have a reason for doin’ things and I spoke right up
and said so. ‘When Cap’n Foster gets ready to put that Griffin boy
out he’ll do it,’ I told him. ‘You say yourself the cap’n don’t act natural
these days. Well, maybe there’s the reason. Probably he don’t really
like that young feller’s ringin’ our front doorbell any better than you
do, and he’s just waitin’ for a good excuse to tell him so.’ That’s what
I said, but I wan’t so terrible satisfied with what I said and Varunas he
was less satisfied than I was.
“‘Hugh!’ says he, disgusted. ‘When I see Foster Townsend waitin’ for
an excuse to do what he wants to, then I won’t guess he’s gone
crazy, I’ll know it. When he sets out to tell the President of the United
States, or the minister, or Judas Iscariot, or anybody else, to go to
Tophet he tells ’em so and then thinks up the excuse afterwards. You
bet he ain’t actin’ natural! Nabby Gifford, if Foster Townsend don’t
need a doctor, or a keeper or somethin’, then I do. This kind of goin’s
on is too much for me!’”
Having contributed this conversational gem from the Gifford family
treasury, Nabby paused. Possibly she expected Esther to offer some
explanation of the Griffin visits. If so she was disappointed, for
Esther said nothing. Nabby picked up a fork from the breakfast table
and then put it down again.
“Well, anyhow,” she continued, “be that as it will or must, as the
sayin’ is, your uncle has acted queer for quite a spell and ’twan’t until
this very mornin’ that he give me the least hint of why he was doin’ it.
When he told me no longer than twenty minutes ago, that he had
been layin’ his plans for you to go over to live along with them—er—
heathen in foreign lands—when he told me you was goin’ and he
was goin’ to stay here to home alone—I got my answer, or part of it
anyhow. The poor soul is about crazy with lonesomeness at the very
idea. That’s what ails him. Are you really truly goin’ to go, Esther?”
Esther nodded. “Uncle says I must,” she replied. “He wants me to go
on with my singing and my music and he can’t go himself—at
present.”
She went on to tell of the proposed trip, of Mrs. Carter, and the
details as she had been told them by Townsend.
“Goodness knows I don’t want to leave him,” she said, “but he insists
that I must. He has arranged for everything. I tried to say No, but he
won’t listen. He will have his own way, as he always does, I suppose.
I know how lonesome he will be. I shall be almost as lonely without
him,” she added.
Nabby seemed to be thinking. There was an odd expression upon
her face.
“You don’t suppose—” she began, and stopped in the middle of the
sentence.
“I don’t suppose what?” Esther asked.
“Oh, nothin’! It’s silly, I guess. I just wondered—it come across my
mind—if it might be he was sendin’ you off so’s to get you away from
—well, from this Bob Griffin.... Humph! No, ’tain’t likely he’d do that,
because—”